


So They Say

by Goodforthesoul



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 06:58:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodforthesoul/pseuds/Goodforthesoul
Summary: They say there is a King Beyond the Wall who does not call himself king and wears no crown, a man, with a white wolf at his side, who leads a people who will not kneel. They say that he refuses to take a wife or a woman into his bed even on the coldest of nights.They say that there is a Queen in the North. A woman who is just and good and strong, who cares for her people and fiercely protects her pack. They say that her people chose her to lead and she is loved by them. They say that she fought so hard for independence that she refuses ever to wed.





	So They Say

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely sure what to make of this story, but it would not leave me alone until I wrote it, so here it is. At least ending is a little less bitter and a little more sweet. :)

They say there is a King Beyond the Wall who does not call himself king and wears no crown, a man, with a white wolf at his side, who leads a people who will not kneel. They say that he refuses to take a wife or a woman into his bed even on the coldest of nights. They say that when he is deep in his cups he speaks of the loves he has lost, two women kissed by fire and one driven mad by it. In the morning, he will not name these women, but rumors have spread among the Free Folk and his old companions share significant looks and knowing grins and whisper that one lady still lives.

They say that there is a Queen in the North. A woman who is just and good and strong, who cares for her people and fiercely protects her pack. They say that her people chose her to lead and she is loved by them. They say that she fought so hard for independence that she refuses ever to wed. But there are others who say that her heart froze when winter came and never thawed in the spring because her love had gone away. There is gossip of a man for whom she unfurled like a flower, but he loved another or left or sacrificed himself to keep her safe. Maybe all of these things are true, maybe none. 

During the second year of her rule, this woman, this just queen, they say, received a raven, a letter from a king. Not the king of the south who was her younger brother, but the one to the north, a cousin who was once thought a sibling, a king who was once thought a bastard. 

They say that she bloomed upon receiving that letter. It was a request for a meeting to discuss the future of the North. Winter would come again soon, the letter said, and the king wanted to ensure that his people and hers would survive. The might have shortened the Long Night but the seasons would turn again and there was no reason not to work together to ensure that none froze or went hungry. 

The king was forbidden to come south, a curse or an exiled, they say, after he killed a queen who would have burned her kingdom to nothing but ash. He had defied her fire and had been sent to a land of ice where he would never be warm again. The Queen in the North had done her best to save her cousin, they say, but even with all her powers and her people behind her, she had been unable to prevail. 

Some of the queen’s advisors urged her not to go. It would be unwise, they said, and she could risk incurring the wrath of the kingdom to the south. It is important to retain good relations, they told her her, but she responded that her brother would not stop her from meeting with their cousin, that the terms of the exile would not be breached. Beside, the land beyond the wall is North’s neighbor as well, and they should maintain a good relationship with them too. Have they forgotten, she asked them, the time when the Free Folk and the North were at odds and Wildings scaled the wall and giants broke down the gates to Castle Black and threatened the small folk of the gift and lands of the Umbers? She would not return to those days of hatred and violence. The giants were gone now and the Umbers, but so too was the animosity between their realms. They say, she would not refuse his request to meet, for unspoken in her heart was the knowledge that it would be so sweet to see him again, no matter what the pretense. 

This king and queen, they met at one of the old castles of the Wall, in the space between their kingdoms. They say he ran to her and she rushed to him, and they embraced each, holding onto one another for as long as they might, wishing that they not let go two years ago when he had been on his way to exile and she on her way to rule.

“I have missed you, Jon,” she whispered into the dark curls that she knew so well. He smelled like she remembered, like the woods, earthiness, evergreens, and snow. 

“And I you,” he replied, breathing her in. “Sansa you have no idea how much you have been missed.” 

She pulled away from his embrace. “I am sorry I did not do more to bring you home.” His hair was longer, his beard wilder, but he looked better, happier, than when she had seen him last. 

“There was nothing more you could do,” he said, looking down. “I never should have left. Never should have gone South.”

“You did what you thought you must.” 

“I was a fool.”

“You saved us all.” 

“At what cost?” 

They say that at first, she did not answer, because she knew the cost all too well. All of the Northmen who died, the Knights of the Vale, the Free Folk. The Unsullied, the Dothraki, too, who were her enemies now, but were allies in the war that mattered most. The life of a queen of fire and blood, and Jon’s life, in a way, for killing her. And Sansa’s life, too, as she ruled alone in an empty castle that she and Jon had retaken and rebuilt together. A home that should have been theirs but was now only hers. 

“The cost might have been great,” she acknowledged, holding his gaze, “but it would have been greater still had we not fought.” 

That night, they say, she came to his solar and poured them both a cup a wine. “I brought my own,” she said. “I remember the poor refreshments from the last time I was here.”

“Aye,” he said grinned. “I’m afraid the ale is not much better beyond the wall. The sour goats milk, though. Well, it grows on you.” And he chuckled at the look of disgust that crossed her features. Even with her nose scrunched, she was more beautiful that he could bear.

It was the first time in years that they have had to talk together as they once did, and they soon fell into the old ease and comfort that had existed between them. They sat together late into the night, warmed by the wine and each other’s company. They say that he told her of the life he had lived since his exile, which was rough, but free, and he never had to kneel again and declare anyone his queen. And she told him of ruling and of their home, of the lords and ladies and servants he knew. She had repaired Winterfell again, this time on her own, and had built her kingdom. 

“You make a fine queen,” he said. “It suits you. It always has. Since you were a girl.” 

“When I was a girl, I thought being a queen was all nice clothes and dashing princes. I knew nothing of what it really means to rule.”

“And yet you made everyone love you, even then.”

“Everyone?” she asked. 

“Everyone,” he said, but did not meet her gaze. “That was what finally drove her mad.” He did not say who, did not need to; they both knew and even unnamed she hung between them. “She realized she was unloved by the people of Westeros. I don’t think she was accustomed to that.” 

“Not unloved by all of them.” 

“Not loved by nearly enough.” 

A heavy silence filled in the air between them. “Did you love her?” 

“Yes. And also no. I loved who she could have been, who I convinced myself she was. But she burned away all that was there to love when she slaughtered thousands. Had I a truly loved her, I would not have been able to murder her, to plunge a dagger into her chest. To do what I must.” The look he directed at her was full of confusion and grief. “Which is worse, to love her and kill her, or to not love her and follow her even after she burned men and women, and, gods, children alive? Either way I am lost.”

They say that in that moment the queen, who had fought to feed her people, to protect them from hunger and the cold and tyrants that would yoke them to a iron chair, took his hand in hers. “Jon, none of that was your fault.” 

“I could have done more to stop it. I could have tried to reason with her again. Make her see a different path than the one she was on.” 

“You can’t guide fire, Jon. Can’t reason with it. It burns where it wishes. You just have to do your best to not let it consume you.” She said, squeezing his hand. “I am glad you survived.” 

He smiled grimly. “What parts of me that did.” 

“You are alive, Jon, which means that not all is lost. You can still find your way back when you are ready.” And she felt his grip on her hand tighten.

“You’re right. I still have much to live for.” And his eyes met hers, his expression soft, and she remembered how he used to look at her before there were dragons and silver-haired queens, and she held his gaze for longer than she should. Until he looked down and excused himself, noting that the sun was rising that they both ought to get to some sleep.

That night, they say, the Queen in the North fell asleep with her hand clutched around the memory of his. 

The second night, they met again and the wine and conversation flowed easily between them, they say. Sansa spoke of Arya, her sister, his too, if not truly by blood than in spirit. 

“Growing up, I think I would have paid anything for her to leave.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

“No, I think I do. I was wretched and she was so strange and annoying. Now I would give more to have her home again. For those few months, I finally felt like I had a sister, and she is gone. Funny isn’t it? And sad. We each had to go through so much to see the other’s worth.” 

“Things change. We are neither of us as we were as children.” 

“I might be changed, but I’m not so sure about you. From what I can tell, you still brood all the time.” 

“I do not.” 

“You’re doing it right now,” she teased. 

He laughed. “Aye, you got me there. But I wouldn’t worry about Arya. She can handle herself better than anyone I’ve met. She’ll come home.”

“I hope so. But everyday I doubt it more.”

“She’ll grow weary of the adventure.” 

“Have you met Arya? She might grow weary of needlework and politics, but not adventure.” 

“I’m afraid you might be right.” 

“Gods, I hope I’m not. I miss her, Jon.” 

“I do too.” 

“She was always your favorite. Well, her and Robb.” 

“Perhaps I’ve changed more than you realize.” 

“And what do you mean by that?” she asked, her eyes bright.

“I’ve grown rather more fond of my other cousins,” he said, looking at her intently, and, they say, she blushed. “Do you hear often from Bran?”

“Not as often as I would like. But you know what Bran came to be. He was gone long before we traveled south and he stayed to be a king. Some nights when it was just the two of us in Winterfell, I felt more lonely than when I was there alone.”

“I am sorry I could not be there with you.”

“In many ways, I believe you were.”

The third night, he came to her. They say that was the start of everything. 

“I thought perhaps we could use a change of scenery,” he said. “Not that any of the rooms here are particularly scenic.” 

“I think that I will always have a fondness for this place. I lived for a long time with finery all around me, but this was the first place after father’s death that I felt safe. The men and the lodgings here were rough, but I knew that you were the one man who would protect me. Or try to at least.” 

“And have you found a man now, one who will protect you?”

“I have my bannermen and my Queen’s Guard. There are good men, Northmen, honorable and loyal.”

“Have you found one to wed? One to love?”

“I will never love. Not like that,” she said, and the lie of it hurt only slightly less than the truth it concealed. “And I do not believe I shall marry. Twice was sufficient for me to know the joys such unions.” 

“What about heirs?” He said, trying not to think of her in another man’s bed, flushed and panting, her thighs sticky with his seed. He tried not to think of another man on top of her, thrusting into her, their moans of pleasure mingling. He tried not to think of another man’s hands on her breasts and lips on her neck and cock inside of her cunt. He tried and failed.

“There must be heirs,” she replied. “Eventually. I will need to take a consort. But I will not wed. I will not put myself into a man’s power ever again. I am a queen, not a wife.” 

“The North will be a kingdom ruled by bastards?”

“They have already had a bastard king, and he was a good ruler and a good man,” she smiled at him. “Beside, I am the queen. I can legitimize my children if I wish.” 

“Every lord in the North must be fighting for the honor to be your consort.”

“And yet I want none of them. There was a man once,” she held his gaze. “There was a man who made me feel safe and loved, but he left.” 

“He was a fool to leave you.” 

“He did what he must.” 

He touched her cheek, cupping her face, his eyes flickering to her lips. “And if all he wanted was to come home?” 

She reached out to tuck a strand of hair, behind his ear. “Then I would welcome him,” she said, leaning forward to meet him, her lips brushing against his. 

The kiss is soft and gentle at first, they say, an exploration, an invitation. She tasted of the wine they had been drinking, of spring, of home, he realized, as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth, hers meeting his. For moment that seemed to last both a second and an eternity, he kissed her and she kissed him and everything was as it should be.

But then the moment and the lifetime was over, and he pulled away. “Sansa,” and they say that her name was like a prayer upon his lips. 

“Please, Jon. I need you.” He caught her breath as she met his eyes, hers two deep blue pools that he wanted to, needed to, drown in. And in that moment, they say, the King Beyond the Wall forgot about oaths and honor and exile and everything but her. 

His lips met hers again, their kiss full of fierce and urgent longing. He caught his fingers in hair kissed by fire, pulling her closer but unable to bring her close enough though she melted against him. Then he was kissing her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her breast. “May I undress you?” he asked, and she assented, helping his fingers when they fumbled with her laces. Her dress fell away and she was wearing only her shift. He pulled her into his lap and his hands found her breasts, the nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric, as she, her fingers, more deft, than his undid the laces on his shirt. 

His hands slipped under her shift, stroking the smooth flat skin of her belly, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples, his cock, already hard against his breeches, growing harder with her every moan and sigh against his mouth. She pulled his shirt over her head, her hands running over his bare chest, and he pushed up her shift, his mouth finding her breasts, kissing, and nipping, and sucking, her hips thrusting against him, and he was painfully aware of the fact that only his pants separated his sex from hers. 

“Sansa,” he breathed, taking one of her small pink nipples into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair and pulling his head against her chest. 

“Oh Jon,” she moans. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.” And he didn’t as he pulled off her shift so that she was naked on top of him. And Sansa, who had never been like this with a man before, who had never felt this heat between her legs, who had never known the pleasure that love could give, forgot to be embarrassed by her scars. All she knew is that she wanted nothing, not even the fine fabric of her shift, to separate her from this man, from Jon, who has been forced into exile, who was forbidden to return to their home, return to her. They had been kept apart by so much and now she wanted nothing to come between them, their skin, their love. She wanted to crawl into his mouth and never leave his side, never leave this room if that was what it took, to stay here, forever, like this, as it should be. 

“Come, Sansa. To the bed,” he said, and she followed him as if in dream, moaning as he pushed her against the wall so that he could kiss her bruised lips, run his fingers over her tender nipples, and she was grateful for the wall, because she knew it was the only thing that kept her upright, knew that without its support she would slide into a puddle. “May I touch you?” he asked, his fingers brushing against the triangle of dark red curls beneath her belly. And she gulped and nodded, because yes, yes, yes, she wanted him to touch her, but she had never been touched there before, not like that. And when his hand slipped between her legs and stroked her sex, she purred and he whispered in a voice choked with desire, “Gods, Sansa. You are so wet.” He pressed a finger against her clit and pushed another inside her cunt and she rocked against his hand and fumbled with the laces of his breeches. 

“Not yet, sweet girl,” he said, gently taking her hand to lead her to the bed. And after he laid her down, he kissed her mouth and neck and the hollow of her throat and her breasts and stomach, and along her thighs and between her legs. She wanted to protest that this was not how Lords made love to their Ladies, but the words died as pleasure curled through her body. And she found she could not speak as he buried his nose and tongue inside of her, traced circles around her nub and licked up and down her cunt, his groans vibrating against her sex until the pulsing heat between her legs washed over her entire body. 

“Gods, Jon,” she said, and she kissed him deeply, tasting herself, the musky saline of her cunt on his lips. “Gods, what was that?”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Mmmhmmm,” she moaned against him as he pulled off his breeches. 

She wanted him so badly she almost forgot to be afraid. Almost. But she tensed before he entered her. “Sansa?” He whispered, her name a question, a request.

“It always hurt,” she said.

“It needn’t have to. Will you allow me to show you?”

She nodded, “Yes, Jon. Please.”

He kissed her deeply, easing himself into her, gently, slowly, groaning at the feeling of her tight wetness around his cock. “Sansa,” he murmured when he was fully inside of her. “Does it hurt?” he asked, looking down on her. “We do not have to do this.”

“Quite the opposite,” she replied. With Ramsay, he had torn into her, each thrust full of searing pain. Jon was different. Of course Jon was different, and there was no pain, just pleasurable pressure and the aching fullness of him between her legs. “And if you stop, Jon, I swear to the old gods and the new...” She trailed off as a moan escaped her lips. 

At first he moved in her with soft slowness, sliding gently in and out of her. He kissed her and breathed her name. “I love you,” he told her over and over and over again, finally giving voice to what he could not for so long. First he had feared to speak what was in his heart because he thought her to be his sister, and then because he thought he might love another, but he should have known that it could always and only be her.

“I love you, too,” she said, running her hands over his back and ass. “Oh, Jon, I love you. I love you,” each thrust met with a confession, a declaration. 

Her hips met his and he moved harder and faster in her, and she cried out his name as pleasure shuddered through her and she thought she would burst. And then his climax came and he spilled himself inside of her. 

Afterward, as he lay beside her, panting and flushed, and his seed was sticky on her thighs, they say that the King in the North realized what he had done. “I made an oath,” he said. “I swore I would father no children. I’ve broken too many oaths in this life; I indeeded to keep this one.” 

“My children will have no father,” she said evenly. “Until the day you can return to the North and claim us.”

“They will be bastards. I promised myself that I would never put a bastard in a woman’s belly, least of all yours.”

She took his hand and placed in on her stomach. “If your seed plants children inside of me, they will be princes and princesses, and no one breath a word to the contrary.” 

“But we are not wed.” 

“And a need not be, Jon. I am yours and you are mine. Now and always.” 

“I am yours and you are mine,” he repeated, and he kissed her, his cock hardening again. “Now and always.”

They say that the Queen and in the North and the King Beyond the Wall met several more times, their excuses less convincing with each raven that passed between them. And within a year, the queen’s belly began to grow round with child, and they say that when the king saw the swell beneath her cloak, he fell to his knees before her and kissed her stomach. And she bid him to rise, and told him that he never need kneel before her. And, they say though none will confirm, that the King Beyond the Wall wept. 

When a daughter was born, a girl with blue eyes and dark curls, and named the heir to the North, the Lords demanded to know the girl’s parentage. “She is my daughter,” the Queen said. “That is all need concern you.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” one of the Lords pressed, “we really ought to know who the father is.”

The queen glared at him. “The North is her father. She is born of the weirwood and the wolf. She is born of snow.” 

And they say that no lord ever again questioned the Queen about who had sired any in her brood, children with Stark coloring and Tully eyes. There were whispers, of course, about the King Beyond the Wall, of a man who had once been thought a sibling and then a cousin and perhaps, now, something more. They say that the Queen’s smile blossomed and her stomach always seemed to swell after her meetings with the King and it became an open secret in the North who had put two daughters and a son in their Queen’s belly. They say that the Queen refused to wed because her lover had sworn to take no wife. They say that he had killed the false dragon queen to save his true Northern one. They say that he did it for love. And, they say, she loved him in return and would refuse all others until she could bring him home. 

And they say that when he had served ten years in exile, a pardon was sent from the south ending his exile and he rode to the North, to Winterfell, to his love and his children. They say that the Queen greeted him and he kissed her in the courtyard for all to see. And they say that her children call him father, though the lords do not call him King. They say that he wants no power and desires no titles. He and the Queen are not wed, but he spends every night in her bed and has given her two more children, a girl and a boy both kissed by fire and wild as wolves. He has is home and his family and, they say of the man who is no longer a king, he finally has peace.


End file.
